Soldiers First
by Silent Epiphany
Summary: Quatre is forced to confront his feelings when Trowa suddenly falls ill. Multi-chapter oneshot. Shonen ai. 4x3; hints of 2x1. Rated T just in case. COMPLETE!
1. Prologue

_**Soldiers First**_

**Disclaimer: **Gundam Wing is property of Sotsu, Sunrise, and a whole bunch of other really wealthy, creative people. I, however, am _not _one of them. No profit made, no profit desired.

**Warnings: **Shonen ai, sticky-sweet sap, and my best (pitiful) attempt at angst.

**Pairings: **4+3/3+4, 2+1

**Overview/Premise: **This is just an angst ficlet I wrote a long time ago. Based somewhere in the series timeline. Please note that Heero and Duo are _not_ a couple in this fic.

**Author's Notes: **

Set in a pre-relationship status, Quatre's hesitation to open up and get attached to Trowa takes a major hit when he suddenly falls ill. This is my ode to the quintessential weepy Quatre fic, because it seems every good author has at least one Quatre cry-fest in their repertoire.

Note: In this fic, Heero and Duo have a running bet on whether or not Trowa and Quatre are "a thing", and all references made herein refer to that.

(Oh, and I had to throw a boypile in there somewhere. The opportunity was waving itself in my face, so I took it. Enjoy the cuteness! =D)

_Soundtrack to this fic brought to you by…_

_"Die Without You," PM Dawn_

_"Words That We Couldn't Say," Cowboy Bebop soundtrack_

_"All My Love (Symphonic Version)," artist unknown_

* * *

For this fic only:

_Emphasis _

'_Thought' _

'_Thought emphasis'_

_

* * *

_

Prologue:

The word had come down with a new mission for the pilots of Deathscythe, Sandrock, Wing, and Heavyarms. It was nothing unusual: Another day, another raid, it seemed.

During the conflict, enemy opposition had successfully isolated the Gundams into pairs. Maintaining confidence in his fellow pilot despite their struggle, Quatre had briefly contacted the Heavyarms pilot.

"Be safe, Trowa," he had simply said. The words held much deeper meaning than their face value would imply, but in times of war and battle, there was no room for such sentiments.

It wasn't long before Heavyarms ran out of ammunition. Trowa knew the territory, and used melee attacks, lunging at his enemies and besting them at close range. From Sandrock, Quatre did his best to keep an eye on his comrades while battling his own foes. Out of the corner of one eye, he could see Heavyarms get hit from behind and fired upon at point blank range.

With a small growl, the blonde dispelled the enemy mobile unit. "You okay, Trowa?"

Heavyarms was slow to move, obviously damaged. "Thanks Quatre. Yeah, I'm okay," its pilot answered.

Deathscythe and Wing rejoined the pair, having defeated their enemies.

"That about does it!" Duo chirped, "Who's up for some grub?"

…

Back at the safehouse they had called home for weeks now, the war-worn pilots gathered in the kitchen briefly for dinner. In a move that wasn't notably uncharacteristic of him, Trowa departed back to his room first, leaving the others to converse.

"Huh, that's odd," Duo commented, looking at the plate next to his blonde-haired companion, "Trowa didn't even sniff his food."

Quatre shrugged it off without a second thought.

…

Back in the privacy of his room, Trowa was miserable. Where had this headache come from? It was to the point of making him dizzy and nauseous. In fact, the Heavyarms pilot couldn't recall having a worse pain in his head than this one. Cold water, he thought; that's what he needed: Just a cool, damp cloth. He padded over to the adjacent bathroom to retrieve one, and the room suddenly twisted and jerked out from underneath him. At once, the nausea bested him, and it was all Trowa could muster to make it to the toilet to lose the contents of his empty stomach.

Feebly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he then reached for the lever to flush when something in the bowl caught his eye.

Was that…blood? Unusual…

'_I just need some rest,' _he reassured himself, _'I'll feel better in the morning.'_

Pulling off his turtleneck, Trowa threw himself down on his dusty futon and waited for the room to quit moving so damn much.

…

"Trowa!" Quatre called, barely in the general direction of the closed door to Trowa's room. "Come on! Breakfast!" In the kitchen, Heero and Duo were already chomping away on freshly-made eggs and bacon while Quatre's plate—and one next to it he made for their missing companion—sat cooling.

"Trowa, are you coming?" The blonde questioned. No answer. He looked to Duo with a perked eyebrow. "You think maybe he's still asleep?"

Duo snorted in reply. Trowa was always one of the first ones awake, regardless of the circumstance. "I'm gonna go see. Maybe he's in the shower or something…"

This time, the long-haired brunette out-right guffawed, nearly choking on his mouthful of food. He elbowed Heero to his right harshly. "See? What'd I tell you?" Duo crowed. "Now pay up!"

"Baka," Heero grumbled, and inched out of the reach of Duo's elbow, "that proves nothing."

…

Quatre padded softly over to Trowa's door.

"Trowa?" He listened for an answer. There was only silence. No water running, either. Cautiously, he turned the brass knob on the door. It'd be locked, for sure, but it was habit to attempt entrance nonetheless. To the blonde's surprise, the knob turned and the door opened.

"Trowa..? It's Quatre. You hungry?"

No reply.

Going against the manners he'd been taught, he poked his head in. On a dusty old futon was the topless frame of the Heavyarms pilot, curled into a fetal ball, hands together under his head in lieu of a pillow which had fallen to the wayside.

Quatre gulped. _'So beautiful,'_ he thought, _'I almost can't bear to wake him.'_ Still, the others were waiting, and he had already violated Trowa's privacy just by making entrance, so he figured he may as well finish the job.

The blonde quietly approached the futon, unconsciously basking in the rhythmic respirations of his companion before reaching out a hand to give his shoulder a gentle shake. "Trowa," he whispered softly, "wake up." The sleeping pilot didn't make a single movement. Quatre shook him again, harder this time; again, no reply. _'Guess he must be a sound sleeper,'_ thought the blonde, who knelt before his companion's partially hair-shrouded face.

"Trowa," he tried again, his voice louder than before.

Quatre's knee was wet…from what?

Instinctively, the Sandrock pilot pulled the shock of red-brown hair from the sleeping pilot's face.

Thick, dark blood poured from both of Trowa's nostrils. Quatre looked to the floor; his weight-bearing knee was covered in it.

The blonde cried out to his comrades, panic resonating in his voice. "Heero, Duo! Come quick! Something's wrong with Trowa!"

Despite the commotion, Trowa still slept.


	2. Chapter One: Waiting Room

Chapter One: Waiting Room

For the fifty-first time, Quatre counted his steps across the tiny, vacant emergency room lobby; it was thirty-four steps each way.

"Hey, Quatre, why don't you quit worrying? It's Trowa, for cryin' out loud!" Duo offered, trying to lift his fretting companion's spirits.

"You're probably right," the blonde finally conceded, plopping limply down in the nearest seat across from Heero and Duo, "He'll be fine. I need to quit dwelling on it."

Duo shot the blonde a warm smile, but Quatre's eyes were fixated on the tacky, floral pattern carpet at his feet. He aimlessly rubbed at the bloodstain on his right knee, which had already dried. There had been so much blood for him to simply overlook it; was he that captivated by the sight of the man he loved that he missed it? _'So much blood,' _Quatre thought, _'too much to be normal.'_ Scrubbing his forehead with a sweaty, trembling palm, he tried his best to shake the thought from his mind. Duo was right: if he could live to tell the tale of saving Quatre from himself, then he needn't worry about a simple nosebleed. That's all it was, after all—just a nosebleed. A really bad nosebleed.

A tall, middle-aged man in a white lab coat entered the room, having a captive audience before he even batted an eye. In his arms, he carried a relatively empty-looking manila folder. Quatre held his breath. _'Tell me he's fine,'_ he silently urged, blue-green eyes wide and hopeful, '_tell me he's awake; tell me I'm just overreacting…'_

"Which one of you was with the patient last?" The doctor asked. The blonde jumped to his feet without a second thought.

"I was," he started, but remembered that they wouldn't be there without Heero's strength and Duo's manic driving. "Well, we all were."

The doctor glanced at Quatre's stained trousers.

"I take it you're the one who found him," he continued. Quatre nodded. "Very well then; I need you to come with me."

"Can…can I see him?" The Arabian meekly inquired, voice as hopeful as his eyes.

"Not until you answer some questions."

"Sure. Whatever you need, Doctor."

Casting a fleeting glance to the two rapt brunettes, the pair exited.

"Now then," the physician began after they were safely out of earshot, "Was he responsive when you found him?"

"No," Quatre replied grimly.

"Was he breathing?"

The blonde nodded.

"How much blood had he lost?"

It was a tough question to hear; an even tougher one to answer.

"A significant amount," Quatre choked out, biting his lower lip. _'Please voice, don't start cracking now…'_

Flipping open the manila folder he'd been toting, the doctor scrawled some brief notes before closing it again. "Did you want an update on his condition?" He offered.

The blonde peered upward, anxiously nodding and bracing for the worst.

"We were able to stop the bleeding," the physician began, "but his body temperature has risen to 103.7, and he's unresponsive to stimuli. Don't worry—he'll have the best round-the-clock care we have to offer."

'_103.7? Comatose?' _Quatre silently repeated to himself. _'Can I just start this day over? Can I wake up now? Please..?'_

"You okay, son?" The doctor's hand gave Quatre's shoulder a squeeze.

"Yes sir. Thank you," the blonde answered, distant with disbelief. Turning on a heel, he began to head back to the lobby.

"We can allow you to see him, if you wish."

The doctor read Quatre's mind. The boy froze. _'Do I __want__ to see him like this..?'_

There was a small pause before he turned back to the physician, who instinctively began to lead the way.

…

Their walk was painfully long and silent. At the threshold to the room, the doctor mumbled something about visiting hours that Quatre completely blocked out when he laid sight on Trowa. To the untrained eye, there was no cause for concern; the slumbering brunette looked just as peaceful as he had before, except now his left hand was tethered to an IV that connected to both a banana bag* and some other foreign chemical. On the tip of his slender index finger was a Pulse-Ox* that displayed normal vital signs, according to the monitor. There was no respiration tube in place and no oxygen mask administered, which meant he was still breathing adequately on his own. Although that looked to be the extent of the good news, Quatre was willing to take it.

He found a chair in the corner of the room nearest the door and pulled it close to Trowa's unoccupied side, sliding down into it.

Reaching between the cold metal railings on the bed, Quatre gently lifted his companion's unencumbered hand and cradled it in both of his own. He fingered callouses riddling the pilot's palm and digits, gingerly lacing their fingers together for the first time; something he'd always wanted to do.

Despite the fact that his conscious mind couldn't process so much as the idea of forming a single sentence, the blonde suddenly found himself speaking.

"I need you in my life, Trowa. You can't…you can't leave me…" He chewed his lower lip at the thought and tried to ward off the tears that came with it, "My life won't be the same without you; I won't be able to go on… If you don't wake up, I'll never get the chance to correct my mistakes…to tell you all these things I feel whenever I see you face, or hear your voice…"

Quatre's voice began to deteriorate as he surrendered to the tears that had been held at bay for hours. "Don't do this," he whispered through stifled sobs, "don't just…slip away from me before we ever got a chance…"

A knock fell on the door.

"Visiting hours are over."

Begrudgingly, the blonde rose from his seat, placing a soft kiss to Trowa's limp hand before delicately returning it to the bed where he'd found it. "I'll be here when you wake. I promise," he whispered, and swiped at his eyes briefly before leaving the room.

…

Duo was asleep on Heero's shoulder when Quatre finally joined up with them again. A quick elbow to the ribs woke the Deathscythe pilot with a snort.

"How is he?" Heero's low voice pried. Quatre's eyes returned to that horrendous floral pattern carpet.

"Good God, Heero! You really lack that many people skills, after all this time?" Duo yelled at a hushed volume. "You can't tell by looking at him?" The American shook his head slowly, taking in the blonde's downtrodden countenance. Once again turning to the seat nearest to him, Quatre limply dropped down into it, head down, hands lifeless in his lap. The sight tugged at Duo's heartstrings. Leaving Heero to his own devices, the long-haired brunette claimed the chair next to his grieving companion, draping an arm over Quatre's sunken shoulders. "He'll be okay," Duo soothed, "He's stronger than you know. He'll come outta this just fine, you'll see." The Deathscythe pilot offered a wry smile which Quatre didn't reciprocate.

Duo paused for thought. "So, since visiting hours are over, whaddaya say we head back to the safehouse and get some sleep?"

"No," Quatre replied flatly, and then amended his curt response. "I just…want to be here. I know you understand."

Duo nodded.

Looking across the room to Heero, the American retrieved the keys to the car they'd had come in and tossed them to the Wing pilot. "Go if you want to, Heero. She's all yours. But I think I'm gonna camp out here with Quatre tonight, just for moral support."

The blonde smiled weakly at his companion's kind gesture. "Thanks, Duo, but you don't have to do that."

"Nah, I _want_ to, Quatre. Honestly." Duo reassured, nodding slightly.

Keys in hand, Heero left the room. _'He's actually gonna do it, huh?'_ The American thought, just before his keen ears picked up on the sound of the Wing pilot's voice down the corridor.

"If anyone has any updates on Trowa Barton's condition, have them notify me immediately. We'll be in the waiting room."

Duo smiled.

…

The next eight hours were agonizing and restless. Around 1 am, the exhausted trio finally collapsed onto one another, making a sandwich of the loudly snoozing Duo, who had commandeered a coffee table for his feet. Under Duo's left arm, where he had been for hours, Quatre had curled in a tight ball in his chair and drifted off to the most unsound of slumbers. With his back slightly to the Deathscythe pilot, Heero had fallen asleep against his companion, arms folded and chin tucked to chest.

At 3 am, the night doctor tapped Heero, who awoke with a jolt he was surprised didn't stir the others.

"Sir, Mr. Barton has reached a 3.5 on the Glasgow Scale*, I'm afraid. I was instructed to inform you." The younger physician reported somberly.

"Any other changes?" Heero questioned.

"Not many. His respiration is slow but steady still, so we're going to continue letting him breathe independently unless something changes. Fever is holding steady at 103.5. That's about all."

With a nod, the young doctor scurried off.

* * *

Notes:

-"Banana Bag": The generic bag of goodies most every inpatient gets. Mainly just consists of the body's basic chemical needs.

-"Pulse-Ox": Short for "Pulse-Oximeter", this is the annoying little fingertip clip that they put on you in the hospital. As the name implies, it keeps track of pulse and oxygen saturation in the blood.

-"Glasgow Scale": The Glasgow Coma Scale tells exactly how deep into a coma a person is. During the fic, Trowa is listed as a 3.5, which is a very deep, unresponsive comatose state that takes a while to come back from.


	3. Chapter Two: Still Fighting

Chapter Two: Still Fighting

"Y'know, what they say about your face is true about your body, too: if you keep it like that too long, it'll stick that way," Duo teased, grinning to his blonde companion.

Quatre didn't even acknowledge him. Despite the fact that he quite possibly hadn't moved at all since he'd returned to Trowa's side, the last thing on his mind was his posture.

"How 'bout we get some fresh air?" The Deathscythe pilot persisted, but his downtrodden comrade still didn't budge.

Duo slung an arm over the blonde's shoulders, giving the smaller boy a gentle tug toward him. "C'mon Quat-it's a beautiful day outside!"

Quatre had to smile at the braided boy's enthusiasm and tenacity; underneath his persona, the one they called Shinigami was truly a kind-hearted soul who deeply cared for his companions as though they were family. It warmed Quatre's heart to know someone was so concerned for his well-being.

"Thanks Duo, but…I really want to be here, just in case," the Arabian gracefully declined, giving his concerned companion his best fabricated smile. To Duo, it was completely transparent.

Finally conceding, the American returned to the wall by the door, leaning back against it and striking a pose similar to one Heero could be seen in. Duo had wracked his brain to think of anything he could do to help, and had done everything he could possibly think of to console his friend, all to no avail. With every moment that passed, Quatre's hopefulness was giving way to the doubt and fear that he struggled to hold at bay, and there seemed to be no one who could stop the progression.

Saving Duo from his own restless mind, the door clicked open, and Heero entered just enough to wave the long-haired boy out into the corridor. Duo obliged.

"So, you ready to admit that you've lost our bet?" The violet-eyed boy smirked.

Heero shrugged, turning to make his way down the hall toward the hospital's main foyer. "It means nothing," he responded flatly, knowing exactly what his fellow pilot had referred to.

The American trotted after his impassive companion, gape-mouthed. "How can you say it means nothing?" He snapped.

"It's Quatre. He'd act the same way if the person in that bed was an enemy."

Duo rolled his eyes. "Had I known you were going to be such a _sore_ _loser_ I wouldn't have agreed to this bet."

"You have yet to give me the proof I need to admit defeat."

The Deathscythe pilot folded his arms with a scoff, "Whatever you say."

The pair continued silently heading toward the hospital's main entrance, passing by strangers and staff alike indiscriminately. Once near the front doors, Heero retrieved the keys Duo had previously given him.

The braided boy perked a brow, "You goin' somewhere?"

"We received a mission," Heero stated flatly; his companion's stride abruptly halted. "I've contacted Wufei. He'll be filling in for Quatre so he can stay with Trowa."

Duo's face fell. Of all the times to be sent out on a mission, this had to be one of the worst. With Trowa still unresponsive and the doctors still guessing, Quatre's enduring optimism about the situation was wearing thinner by the minute. Duo didn't like the idea of leaving while one of his own was incapacitated, and he especially didn't like leaving Quatre without someone to lean on. Still, there were some things that simply could not be avoided, and missions were certainly one of them.

Heero turned to face the long-haired pilot, who gave him a quick nod. "Right. Let's get moving."

…

Not long after Heero and Duo had said their goodbyes and departed, a knock fell on the hospital room door. On the other side of that door was a younger-looking woman in a white lab coat who entered carrying the same manila folder once held by the middle-aged physician Quatre had previously encountered. It looked to have gained more girth since the Arabian last saw it.

The young woman's face was bright and hopeful as she shut the door behind her, flicked open the file, and spoke.

"I've got some good news for you: the Doctor has formed a preliminary diagnosis," she informed. "He's thinking it's Wegener's Disease."

Quatre had never heard of such a thing, but followed along as though he had.

"We'll need an MRI to confirm the diagnosis, and then we can begin treatment. A nurse will be by shortly to take him," the woman explained, and quietly made her exit, leaving the door open behind her.

For the first time since that day at the safehouse, Quatre could feel his pulse pounding in his throat. Even though it was just a working diagnosis, it was still _something. _If nothing else, it was a branch of hope to grasp onto; something to believe in, a reason to be steadfast.

The nurse couldn't come quickly enough. Quatre kept a watchful eye on the bustling corridor, anxiously pacing before the doorway. Any moment, one of the hospital's staff would come to get Trowa the imaging to confirm the diagnosis and save him before he slipped away. Quatre was more than ready for the nightmare to be over; to wake up lying in a safehouse bed rather than curled up in a waiting room chair. At last, there was an end in sight, and it was so close he could see it in his head. He'd learned his lesson; he wouldn't waste another moment fretting over rejection or uncertainty. In a world where they were guaranteed no tomorrows, some things needed to be said in case there wasn't another opportunity. As soon as he woke, Quatre would make sure he said all the things he'd withheld, and express all he'd hidden. Trowa wouldn't go another day without knowing exactly how loved he truly was.

Interrupting him from his reverie was the sudden presence of a loud beeping. The Arabian's eyes instinctively shot over to the monitor to see that previously normal vital signs, once highlighted in cheery blue lettering, were illuminated in a disconcerting shade of red.

Seconds later, they began to flash.

The young woman who had previously spoken to Quatre bolted in to check the alerting machine.

"What's going on?" The blonde asked uncertainly.

The woman moved swiftly around him, ignoring the question for the time being. Quatre could only watch as she darted out into the corridor and returned with a readied injection. Discarding the capped needle from the top of it, she plunged the blunt tip of the syringe into a port on Trowa's IV and purged the liquid into the line.

Within seconds, the alarming red characters on the monitor reverted back to their previous shade of blue, and all noises ceased.

She audibly released a breath, discarding the empty syringe. "His heart rate slowed which caused an unsafe drop in blood pressure."

"What…does that mean?" Quatre asked tentatively.

"It means we won't be needing that MRI after all."

The boy persisted, "Why not?"

"…Because we're back to the drawing board."

The only glimmer of hope he'd had vanished, Quatre slumped down into his bedside chair, feeling as though he'd had his very soul wrest of him. As he had before, he weakly laced his fingers between Trowa's, using his free hand to absently stroke the tender skin of the sleeping boy's forearm.

Despite the scare, the Heavyarms pilot had retained the same placid expression throughout; a fact that made Quatre worry that he was holding onto less of the one he loved, and more of a shell where he used to be.

Never before had the blonde experienced such a feeling of absolute helplessness. This…virus, condition, disease—no one knew which it was—was ravaging the body of the boy who held his heart, stealing his life from him. It wasn't supposed to be this way. It wasn't a fitting end. If Trowa was going to have his life abruptly taken from him, it was supposed to be during battle while he fought for what he and all the pilots believed in. Not in a hospital bed, bound to machines, fading away before Quatre's very eyes, still ignorant of all the important thoughts and feelings left unsaid.

…

Hours passed, and a nurse came to draw blood. Quatre hoped beyond hope—hoped against reason—that the sensation would somehow miraculously wake Trowa up. And while it didn't do that, there was the slightest hint of a twitch and a fluttering of eyelids when the needle pierced skin.

"That's a good sign," the nurse smiled, "Whatever's causing this, he's still fighting it."

As she passed by to make her exit, she laid a hand gently on the blonde's shoulder.

"Doctors say they can hear you, you know…I bet he's fighting because he knows you're here."

Tears welled in Quatre's aquamarine eyes. It seemed like an outlandish concept, but at this point, he was willing to give just about anything a chance. He gave the hand he held a tight squeeze, and leaned in closer to the slumbering brunette.

"If you can hear me, Trowa…please, keep fighting…"

* * *

**AN: **Sorry about the delay between chapters! I just moved across country to attend school at the University of Kansas Medical Center and I'm up to my neck in to-dos!

I'm also finding this story particularly hard to write, because in the medical field we're taught to separate science from emotion, but in order for this story to be worth reading, I have to blend both aspects. Kinda makes things difficult for me, but I'm doing the best I can. Sorry again about the delay! :/ Please keep reading, and keep reviewing! Reviews are a huge source of motivation for me!


	4. Chapter Three: Inseparable

Chapter Three: Inseparable

Quatre sat in the desolate waiting room of the intensive care wing, arms curled about himself as though he was cold. And he was. But this kind of cold was one that no amount of warmth would remedy.

Insomnia had forced him to while away the hours in silence, watching as the hands of the clock made their way round time and time again. Around him, the cleaning crew dusted and vacuumed. Quatre paid them no mind. The room smelled of cleaning agents and the chair he sat in hurt his back, but it didn't matter.

Nothing mattered except Trowa.

For the time being, magnetically-sealed doors guarded the entrance to the wing where Trowa lie sleeping; only the staff had the means to pass through. In a few hours, the sun would rise on another day, and Quatre would rush to his love's side in hopes that he had risen at some point during the night.

It hadn't happened yet, but the little blonde still held on to the last pieces of hope he had left.

As the hour when Quatre and Trowa could reunite approached, the Arabian began to make his way over to the sealed entryway before the ICU. Ten minutes and counting before visiting hours began. Quatre initiated a silent countdown while he waited.

"Good morning!" A female voice called.

It was the same kind-hearted nurse who had consoled the blonde before. In one of her hands was a keycard that granted her unrestricted access throughout the hospital; in the other, a small kit that appeared to be for collecting blood samples.

Quatre gave her the best endearing smile he could muster, moving to meet her as she approached the doors. There was a hopefulness dancing within his aquamarine eyes as their gazes locked.

She got the hint. Heaving a soft sigh, she swiped her card and the magnetic lock clicked open. "What the heck," the nurse commented, one corner of her mouth rising in a grin, "I'm heading that way anyhow, so we may as well go together."

…

The pair headed down the corridor side by side and approached the closed entrance to Trowa's room, Quatre's eager pace nearly leaving the nurse behind. After a knock that was more out of hospital protocol than anything else, the woman opened the door.

Taking in the sight of the one he loved, Quatre could feel his heart sink.

Nothing had changed.

The sleeping boy looked just the same as he had every morning; he hadn't moved an inch from where he was when Quatre had seen him last.

Slumping down into the same chair at his companion's bedside, the blonde gently stroked his palm over the back of his love's hand, disheartened by the lack of response from the other.

"How are you holding up?" The nurse smiled warmly as she looked over her patient.

The boy gave a small shrug of reply.

"It'll get better," the woman assured. But, as she swabbed the inside of Trowa's arm with a sterile alcohol pad, something caught her eye: a field of pin-point sized purple marks.

Curiously, she pushed the sleeve of the boy's hospital gown up to discover many more.

"Were these here yesterday?" She asked, gesturing to the discolorations.

Quatre blinked at them, perplexed. "I don't think so."

"Well that's…interesting," she continued, frowning absently as she looked over the sleeping boy more closely. Upon further examination, the woman discovered patches of bare skin on Trowa's forearm where there had apparently once been hair. A quick glance at her gloves revealed where said hair had gone.

From his vantage point, the blonde could see the woman wring her lip. "I think I'd better let the doctor know about this…"

…

Moments later, a knock fell on the door, and the middle-aged man Quatre recognized as the admitting physician entered. The manila folder that had once been so vacant appeared to have become rather portly, even since the last time Quatre had seen it.

Flipping open the file, the doctor wasted no time in sharing the latest news.

"The results of his blood work were abnormal; his white blood cell count is steadily decreasing," the man informed him somberly. "Any information you can provide us about his recent whereabouts or any health history would be greatly appreciated."

Quatre's eyes dropped to his feet. He struggled to think of anything that had plagued Trowa in the time they had known each other, but the Heavyarms pilot had nary a sniffle that the blonde could remember.

"He's always been healthy, so far as I recall…"

The physician hummed in reply, jotting notes down on a paper within the folder.

"Has he been in any government areas or restricted access zones?"

Quatre shook his head.

"Has he been around any mobile suit battles that you know of?"

'_What does that have to do with anything?'_ the blonde silently pondered. In the past, he'd always kept such information confidential; however, given the circumstances, privacy was an afterthought.

Quatre gave the doctor a small nod.

Immediately the man turned, calling out to the nearest nurse's station. "Allie, get 303 out of here now!" He instructed authoritatively, his voice slightly raised with urgency.

On cue, nurses clamored about Trowa's room, shuffling the bed-bound brunette into the hallway, IV and monitors in tow.

"Wait—where are you taking him?" the blonde was far more panicked than his voice illustrated, "What's happening?"

Quatre followed the commotion out into the corridor, but was halted by the physician before he could continue further.

"There's a possibility your friend has been suffering from radiation sickness. Don't worry-if our diagnosis is correct, we should see improvement shortly."

His eyes still fixated on the retreating figures rushing down the hallway, the little blonde moved to the right in a pitiful attempt to dodge the man who blocked his path.

"You can't go any further," the doctor informed, "You'll have to wait here. I'm sorry."

Hearing the sound of their companion's panicked voice from their location Duo, Heero, and Wufei rounded the corner just in time to catch a glimpse of the scene.

As the physician calmly retreated, leaving Quatre frozen in place, Duo trotted to his fellow pilot's side, his yard-long braid wagging behind him.

"What's going on?"

The smaller boy shook his head.

"I…I don't know."

The pair watched in silence for a moment as hospital staff on either side of Trowa's bed hurried down the corridor, beyond another set of magnetically-sealed doors.

Quatre dimly noted the presence of a warm, gentle palm on his shoulder and turned to see that, much to the surprise of everyone—including himself—it belonged to Heero. The Arabian abruptly turned into the Japanese pilot's touch, burying his face in the worn fabric of Heero's tank top. He still smelled of gun oil, grease, and sweat; the three of them must have come straight from the mission.

Duo rubbed a palm up and down the blonde's back gently. "Hang in there, Quatre...you and I both know he's gonna get better. Don't give up on him yet."

Quatre bit back his tears and drew a ragged breath, pulling away from the Wing pilot's company. "I'm not," he assured.

In truth, he wondered about the accuracy of Duo's statement. What if he _didn't_ get better? What if he didn't pull through?

The blonde gave his head a small shake, clearing the thoughts from his mind. He didn't want to think about the possibility of never again looking upon the face of the boy he loved, and never again staring into depthless emerald eyes; the pain was too much to bear.

It was his own fault that he'd let an illness be the event that prompted him to realize what the green-eyed boy meant to him, but nevertheless Quatre knew that if Trowa didn't recover, neither would he.

Duo gave the Sandrock pilot a soft pat, shaking him from his thoughts. "You okay?"

The Arabian nodded.

"We're going back to the safehouse," Heero informed, "Duo, you stay with Quatre."

"And keep us updated," Wufei added.

"Can do!" Duo gave a mock salute to the fellow pilots as they faded from sight.

The American knew his role; knew he had to be strong for Quatre. It was up to him to be the pillar of support in his time of doubt and despair.

"Since you said you're okay, I'm gonna assume you're up for taking a walk," the long-haired boy grinned cheerfully to his downtrodden companion. "C'mon, there's no sense in wasting a beautiful day, now is there?"

This time, Quatre didn't protest.

…

Outside, the sun shone down brightly, unobstructed by clouds; all around them birds sung merrily in the trees.A soft, cooling breeze curled about the Arabian's body, brushing blonde bangs aside with its invisible, featherlike touch.

But it was still stormy in Quatre's mind.

Duo strolled alongside the shorter pilot with his hands in his pockets. He drew in a deep breath, savoring the cool air as it filled his lungs.

"See! Didn't I tell ya it's beautiful out?" He beamed to the blonde.

Beyond the bright smile Duo offered, Quatre could see the tell-tale signs of exhaustion on his companion's face. He and the others had picked up the slack for not one only pilot but _two_, and why? So Quatre didn't have to leave Trowa's side. A wave of guilt poured over him.

"I'm sorry for leaving you guys with extra work..." The blonde sighed heavily.

Duo slung an arm over his companion's shoulders, leaning a bit of his weight down onto him.

"Think nothin' of it," the Deathscythe pilot returned cheerily. "So, did they finally figure out what's going on?"

"They think so," Quatre replied, "But they've been wrong before."

"Well, they seemed pretty serious this time," Duo countered, "So let's just keep our fingers crossed."

…

By the time the two were back inside, Trowa had been returned to his room. Quatre could clearly tell they had given him a different bed, as well as a fresh hospital gown. Crisp, white sheets were pulled up to the chest of the sleeping pilot, the various IV lines and monitors attached to him ensuring that his arms were exposed.

Quatre settled himself at the unencumbered side of his companion once more while Duo leaned his back against the wall near the foot of Trowa's bed.

The physician had said that a correct diagnosis would bring about noticeable improvements in a short amount of time, but still Quatre couldn't see any. Instead, it seemed they had just added another bag onto the IV pole and given the sleeping boy a fresh change of clothes.

Hearing his companion heave a long sigh, Duo perked a brow. "What's wrong?"

Quatre shook his head. "They must not have figured it out after all," he murmured, absently stroking Trowa's slender digits.

"What makes you say that?" The American queried.

"The doctor said we'd see improvement right away, but nothing's changed."

"Give it time, Quatre," Duo encouraged, "It probably hasn't been long enough."

There was a small silence before the Arabian spoke again.

"…What if it's been _too _long?"

The comment prompted the Deathscythe pilot to push himself off the wall and join his smaller companion at the sleeping brunette's bedside.

"Don't talk like that," Duo reassured, placing his palm over the boy's shoulder and giving it a light squeeze, _"He's_ obviously not giving up, so why should you?"

Preoccupied by their own thoughts, neither of them noticed the arrival of Heero and Wufei until the Chinese boy spoke.

"How is he?"

The American turned to face his two fellow pilots, offering a small shrug. "Nothing yet."

Heero nodded in reply. "Are you coming back to the safehouse tonight?" He deadpanned.

"You're not leaving _now_, are you?" Duo questioned.

"Visiting hours are almost over, Duo," the Japanese boy continued.

Amethyst eyes bounced from the blonde at his side to the expectant faces of his companions.

"Make up your mind, Maxwell," Wufei insisted. "We're leaving when visiting hours end."

With that, the pair faded from sight.

Duo was exhausted. His entire body ached, pleading for the sleep it had gone so long without. Still, he couldn't just abandon Quatre because he needed rest. Besides, visiting hours were almost over, and with how tired he was he knew he wouldn't have a problem sleeping in the torturous waiting room chairs.

Duo yawned and folded his arms, lining himself along the wall once more. As the minutes passed by, the Deathscythe pilot felt his eyelids grow heavy. Quatre needed him to be there and he wasn't about to let his friend down…but there wasn't anything wrong with resting his eyes, was there? He decided he'd let them close, but only for a minute; he wouldn't let himself fall asleep.

…

"Time's up," the charge nurse called with a knock, jerking Duo awake. "Come on, let's go."

Quatre didn't move a muscle. He had had just about enough of the staff that so abruptly dislodged him from Trowa's side every night. This time, he vowed, would be different; tonight, he wouldn't be moved.

The nurse began to approach him. To take him away from the one person he loved more than life itself. At the presence of her firm palm on his shoulder, the blonde's head lifted slightly, his expression steeled and resolute.

"You may not know who I am, but please believe me when I say that if you—or anyone on your staff—make me leave this room one more time, it will be a very, _very_ long time before you work in this field again," the Arabian snarled; even the God of Death got a chill up his spine from the remark. "Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

The nurse froze, slack-jawed.

"Well, go on! You heard the man!" Duo shooed, and pushed the woman from the room, slamming the door in her face as he put his back against it. "Quatre, that was amazing! Where'd you learn _that_ tone of voice?" Duo verbally applauded, violet eyes wide with awe.

Of all the things Quatre Winner was, rude was certainly not one of them. Then again, he'd never seen the blonde in such an emotionally exhausted state, either.

"You should get some sleep, Duo."

Not the response the American had anticipated. That, instead, was his cue to leave.

"Yeah, uh, fine…I'll do that," Duo balked, "…You sure you're okay here alone, Quatre?"

"I'll be fine."

"O-okay then, if you say so. See you in the morning, I guess."

Quatre waited until he heard the door close again before releasing a heavy sigh.

Tonight, he would wait for his love to come back to him, and no one would tear them apart.

There was silence now; silence, and the rhythmic humming and beeping of the machines that watched over Trowa. As the hours slipped by, their lullaby slowly sung the exhausted blonde to sleep.

…

The world slowly came back into focus for Trowa Barton. His head pounded like it never had before, and his right hand was numb. Blinking blearily through the haze of sleep and throbbing pain in his temples, he assessed his surroundings. Where was he? The hospital? How did he get here? The four of them had just returned from a mission… Trowa briefly recalled that they had made it out unscathed, and now this? His head hurt too badly to give it any more thought.

Could he move his hand? He wiggled his fingers and heard a sleep-ridden moan that sounded like…

A little blonde head shifted slightly.

Quatre was peacefully slumbering with his face resting against Trowa's arm. Even sound asleep, the boy still clutched at his love's numb hand, unwilling to let it go as he slept. From the dark shadows that framed his eyes, Trowa could clearly tell that his companion needed every minute of rest he was afforded. As gently as he could, the brunette settled himself down into the bed.

Some things were more important than his hand.

…

Sunrise peeked through a space between the vertical blinds over the lone window in the hospital room, and Quatre realized he'd fallen asleep.

Shaking off his drowsiness, he glanced anxiously to Trowa, who was still the portrait of peaceful; eyes closed under his auburn hair, lips just slightly parted.

Gently, Quatre dropped a kiss onto the hand he still held.

"Oh Trowa," he whispered, "Please hear me…I need you with me…please, just wake up…"

The blonde had run out of tears long ago, but his eyes still shut tight, waiting for more to come.

Suddenly, the hand he held gripped in response.

The Arabian gasped, his eyes flashing over to Trowa's face, jaw hanging loosely. Long lashes fluttered open to reveal groggy emerald eyes that blinked back at the boy hazily. Despite his best efforts, Trowa had fallen back asleep during the night.

Quatre's eyes found a way to make more tears, and they came cascading down his ivory cheeks en masse. He could only think to breathe his love's name.

"I was so scared…" the blonde began to babble, "I thought you were really gone…"

Silently, the Heavyarms pilot brushed a thumb along his companion's cheekbone, wiping away the tears there. He gave his head a small shake in reply, fighting the pounding headache that still plagued him.

Watching the movements on his love's face, Quatre could see the faint twinge of pain he illustrated. His smile vanished.

"You should rest, Trowa. Don't stay awake for my peace of mind," the blonde urged, using his thumb to give a gentle stroke to his love's hand.

"Will you…be here?" Trowa croaked, his voice raspy from its days of inactivity.

"Mm," Quatre nodded, giving the hand in his own a light squeeze. "I'm not going anywhere. Not until you're well."

The words seemed consoling enough, and once again, Trowa slept.

* * *

Notes / "Fast Facts":

-The purple marks on Trowa's arm are called _petechiae_, which are usually indicative of a blood abnormality, such as that which accompanies radiation sickness.

**ANs:**

A big THANK YOU! to all those who helped me with this chapter! Sorry it took so long, but hopefully you all enjoyed it! Please review if you did-it makes the next chapter happen faster! :D


	5. Chapter Four: Soldiers First

Chapter Four: Soldiers First

Hours later, the door to Trowa's hospital room cracked open and a single violet eye peered in. The lights in the room were much dimmer than before, but beyond that, not much had changed. The little blonde still sat at his love's bedside in the same chair he'd been in, silently waiting.

There seemed to be something slightly different about him, though; his posture was far more relaxed than it was when the American had seen him last. His palm still sat atop the sleeping brunette's hand, but it wasn't moving. There was no insecurity or desperation in their contact like there had been before.

As he turned toward his guest, Duo noted the expression on Quatre's face was different as well. He looked far less distraught-almost rested, even-and the spark within his aquamarine eyes had returned. It all amounted to one thing.

"He's back?" Duo couldn't help but say it loudly.

The Arabian gave a small nod.

"He's back!" The long-haired boy repeated, bounding out of the doorway as though he had springs in his heels. Braid dancing behind him, Duo rounded the corner and threw his arms around the first person he came into contact with.

…Which just so happened to be Heero.

The Japanese boy blinked rapidly at his ecstatic companion, who was nearly swinging from his neck. From just behind them, Wufei perked a brow at the display.

"Heero, he's back! He made it!"

Their sudden embrace short-lived as Duo was just as quick to rescind, snatching Heero's wrist in his hand and dragging his stunned companion back toward the hospital room where their recovering comrade lie.

…

As the commotion in the corridor carried into the hospital room, long eyelashes fluttered, revealing nearly indiscernible slits of emerald.

Trowa's head hurt considerably less than the last time he recalled being awake; in fact, he felt exponentially better as a whole. He blinked several times, doing his best to shake off the fog of sleep still clouding his sight. Once his visual acuity returned, he could see Duo smiling brightly at him from the foot of the bed. A gentle rub to the back of his hand indicated Quatre's presence at his side, and he could clearly distinguish the shadows of two figures in the doorway: Heero and Wufei. All of his fellow Gundam pilots had come to see him. It warmed his heart to know they cared that much.

"Hey, Trowa," his long-haired companion grinned, leaning over the bed's footboard, "Welcome back! You really gave us all a scare there, man!"

That much was obvious. If he had been ill enough to be hospitalized, it must have been pretty severe. Unfortunately, he still hadn't the foggiest exactly what had warranted such medical intervention. They had come home from a successful mission, and he had gone to bed early on account of feeling not quite up to par, but that was the last thing he remembered.

Trowa flashed a green eye over to Quatre.

"What exactly happened?" He asked softly.

Despite the fact that his loved one seemed to be out of danger, Quatre found he was still reluctant to answer. He had spent the past several days fighting back the images in his mind, trying his best to erase them; the last thing he wanted was to dredge them up again. He drew a deep breath.

"Well, I called you down for breakfast," he recounted slowly; this part didn't hurt to speak about…so far. "And when you didn't answer, I went into your room and…found you."

There was an unexpected pause as the blonde's voice crackled into silence. Quatre's chest ached as the mental images came flooding back to his mind… Images of Trowa, unresponsive and soaked in blood…his lithe body limply sagging in Heero's arms as they rushed him into the emergency room…

'_So much blood…but he looked so peaceful…' _Aquamarine eyes turned to the floor.

Quatre was confident those images would be staining his mind for years to come, despite whatever efforts he may put forth to delete them. He had come so close to making the most regrettable mistake of his life by losing someone so important to him without ever expressing his feelings. Trowa had nearly died never knowing how loved he truly was, the impact of just his mere existence, and how much his survival of the war mattered.

"…Found you, unconscious, laying in a pool of your own blood," Quatre finally finished.

Seeing the blonde's obvious difficulty in recalling the events, Trowa hated to persist, but he simply had to know. "How did I get here?"

"Heero carried you. Duo drove."

Duo put two fingers in the air and smirked, "No flash photography, please!"

Heero visibly rolled his eyes.

"They took you straight in," the Arabian continued, "Ran some tests…but after you were admitted, you spiked a high fever and became completely unresponsive."

Trowa frowned. "How long was I out?"

'_An eternity…'_ Quatre sighed. "Four days."

"Duo, Heero, Wufei," Trowa began, gaze shifting to those he addressed, "Could Quatre and I have a word?"

Heero gave a single nod and headed out the door, with Wufei following suit. As they departed, an emerald stare fixated on the long-haired pilot, who looked as though he thought he was exempt from the request.

"…in private."

Duo sighed disagreeably and rose from his seat.

"Fine, fine, I see how you are," he sulked. Trowa knew better than to believe he'd legitimately hurt his friend's feelings.

When the door clicked shut, a pair of sparkling green eyes focused solely on the little blonde. Trowa turned the hand his companion had once held palm-up on the bed, fingers faintly reaching out to the boy. Quatre nestled his own hand against the calloused warmth of his love's palm, and for the first time it was the taller boy who interlaced their digits.

"Are you okay?" He asked, his voice taking on a gentle quality unlike anything Quatre had ever heard him use before. It was soft, soothing, and overwhelmingly sincere. As their gazes met, the blonde noticed his eyes matched his tone, their endless emerald soft with kindness and concern.

Quatre smiled wryly at his companion's query. "You're the one in the hospital bed, not me."

"Mm," the taller boy affirmed, using the pad of his thumb to stroke at the slender hand in his own, "But I'm fine now. You…I'm not so sure about."

The Arabian unconsciously wrung his lip, his sights shifting to the floor. "How am I supposed to feel? You almost died…I didn't think you were going to make it…"

Trowa nodded. "And someday I might not. There's nothing we can do about that. We are soldiers first and foremost, Quatre," he stated plainly.

There was a small pause before the blonde raised wistful, anxious aquamarine eyes up to meet those of his companion once more.

"But for right now, can we just be…us?"

'_Us,'_ Trowa repeated to himself, _'What a wonderful word.' _

He discreetly inched away from the blonde, leaving an empty space on the hospital bed, and extended an open hand to the boy.

Seeing this, Quatre froze, feeling all of his self-confidence suddenly seep out through his toes, leaving in its absence only an unfamiliar shaky insecurity like none he'd ever experienced.

In the past, he had only ever watched Trowa from afar. He had lost more than a few nights' sleep on account of pondering the sound of his kiss, the feel of his lips, and what it would be like touching him. On many occasions he had imagined the warmth of his skin, the tickling brush of his breath across his cheek, or the sound of his voice whispering soft words.

It had been the stuff of pure fantasy; a completely unattainable, impossible desire. And yet, here was the cold, detached soldier he loved so deeply extending a hand to him, his apathetic persona long gone. All that remained was the compassion and kindness he kept hidden beneath his façade; the same qualities the blonde had sensed about Trowa that had drawn him in to begin with. For the first time, he was seeing the one he loved not as the nameless deadly mercenary he was, and not as a Gundam pilot with an assumed identity, but as _himself_: The gentle, loving soul who wanted nothing more than to experience a love returned to him.

Shakily, Quatre placed his hand in the one offered him, and diffidently climbed onto the bed to sit beside his companion. Had his pulse not been pounding in his throat, the blonde would have sworn he was dreaming. He had never been this close to Trowa; he'd never _felt_ so close to him, either. The brunette released his grasp on the appendage he held, and insecurity seeped into the Arabian's skin, coursing through his veins like ice water.

But, in a single move, Trowa eliminated all the anxiety and hesitance Quatre had as he enveloped the blonde in his arms, pulling him gently into the warmth of an embrace. Being encircled in the tender hold of those long arms was pure bliss; much more than the Arabian had imagined it would be. He could feel the faint tickling of the boy's breath in his hair; his heart leapt within his chest as the taller pilot ever so gently dropped a kiss onto the top of his head.

Wiggling his arms around Trowa's midsection, Quatre nestled his cheek against the reassuring warmth and firmness of the other's body. He delighted in each passing second spent within the loving embrace of the green-eyed boy. Here he knew he could spend eternity, if he was lucky enough to be given the chance. Here, he'd found someone who had become a piece of his very soul.

A shock of red-brown hair cascaded over blonde locks as Trowa allowed his head to come to rest atop his companion's. For the moment, nothing else mattered; nothing else existed. Quatre exhaled deeply and let his eyes slide closed. The most comforting sound in the world filled his ears: Trowa's heartbeat.

…

Without making a single sound, Duo cracked the closed door to Trowa's room and peeked in with one violet eye. There, on the center of the hospital bed was a lovingly tangled mess of two of his fellow pilots. Duo could barely make out Quatre's mussed blonde locks between the long arms encircled around him and the shock of red-brown hair that sheltered him. His keen hearing could faintly distinguish the murmurs of Trowa's softly-spoken words to the one in his embrace. Whatever was said, Duo didn't need or want to know; it was obviously meant for Quatre alone. Silently, he heaved a long sigh. _'What I'd give for a moment like that with—'_

His wistfulness was cut short by a tap on the shoulder.

'—_Heero.'_

Shutting the door and whirling around quickly, Duo fumbled for the words to explain what his stoic companion had caught him doing.

"Just checking up on our bet," he chirped. Yeah, that'd work; it was at least _part_ of his motive, after all. "Got my money, huh Heero?"

Heero groaned.

"Hey, you wanted proof, right?" Duo continued, "Well, beyond that door is all the proof you need, pal. Trust me."

The Japanese boy had heard just about enough of his boisterous companion's talk about their wager. Ever since he'd agreed to that silly bet, the violet-eyed pilot had done his best to prove his victory at every turn. Heero had been unbelieving, unwilling to accept defeat; but it appeared as though he would finally have to give up the fight. Especially because he truly had no desire to see what was taking place beyond that door, even if it meant proving himself victorious, which he surmised it almost certainly wouldn't.

"Fine," the Wing pilot conceded, "I'll take your word for it, just this once."

The braided boy felt disappointment wash over him. Heero never took his word on _anything_! If he was that disgusted at the mere implication of a romantic relationship between two boys, then Duo's love for him was indeed all for naught. Still, unwilling to let his pessimistic thoughts physically manifest, the American forced a grin and extended an upturned palm to his companion.

"Pay the man!" he quipped, fabricated triumph in his voice flawlessly masking the longing and jealousy plaguing his mind.

"I don't have any money on me _now_, baka," Heero grumbled.

Duo's face fell momentarily, only to brighten once more when a brilliant idea struck him.

"That's okay then," the pilot replied. Cobalt blue eyes blinked back at him with one eyebrow perked curiously. "Save it. Just buy me dinner sometime."

"I'm not paying for _them_. That wasn't part of the bet," Heero retorted.

Despite knowing all that rode on the reaction to his next statement, Duo gave his best nonchalant shrug. "Who said they're invited?"

A moment of silence passed between the two as the wheels turned in the mind of the Japanese pilot. Just he and Duo? Sure, they'd been on missions together—occasionally they were even forced to sleep in the same quarters—but they never associated recreationally. It wasn't that he _disliked_ the braided boy, he just found him a little too…_high-strung_ for his taste. They were vastly different personalities, akin to a yin and yang, and that alone made their communication problematic. Add onto that the fact that Heero lacked interpersonal skills as a whole, and interaction became next to impossible. This had never seemed to deter Duo, though; the boy had stuck with him somehow, insistent upon forming a bond between the two of them. And he had, to some extent, actually succeeded.

For that reason alone, the Japanese boy couldn't see anything _wrong_ with the request; he didn't have a well-founded, valid reason to say no, either. After all, what harm could come of it?

Looking back at his companion's bright amethyst eyes, Heero sighed lightly. "…Where and when?"

Before Duo could begin to form a reply, the door to the hospital room clicked open.

"Sorry about that, guys," Quatre remarked, his cheeks a bit pink.

Apparently what Duo had witnessed was Trowa doing his best to soothe and comfort the blonde. It seemed to have worked, as Quatre gave a meek smile to the previously isolated pair of pilots; the first they had seen from him in far too long.

"What was all that about?" asked Duo, feigning insult.

The Arabian's face darkened a shade as he fumbled for an answer.

"I wanted to speak to Quatre about some issues that don't concern you," was the reply from within the room.

The old cold Trowa was back, that was for sure. The icy tone in his fellow pilot's voice was oddly reassuring; it made Duo grin.

Especially because he knew exactly what had transpired between the two.

...

As the five pilots reconvened within the hospital room, they were joined by the middle-aged doctor who had been overseeing Trowa's treatment. Underneath a sleeve of his white lab coat was the same husky manila folder that contained all of the information he had gathered on his patient.

"Mr. Barton," the doctor said with a chipper tone, "Glad to have you back. I'd like to take a moment to speak to you. Is now a good time?"

The bedbound brunette gave a small nod of reply.

"I'll be disclosing personal information," the man informed dully, his eyes darting to the faces of the other pilots, "Would you rather we speak in private?"

"They can stay," Trowa responded in an absolute tone, leaving no room for doubt or debate.

"Very well then," the physician continued, and splayed the file folder open in his hands. "We've run some tests, and have confirmed a diagnosis of moderate radiation sickness. With radiation sickness, the standard course of treatment is to administer a chemical compound called Prussian Blue. It binds to radioactive particles in the body and neutralizes them, rendering them harmless. Your progress tells us the treatment is going according to plan, which is good." The man's eyes hardened as he drew a breath before continuing his lecture. "But be very careful to monitor your level of exposure in the future. If you begin to exhibit the same symptoms you previously had, you need to contact us immediately. Lastly, it's advisable to take a few days of rest before returning to your normal activities, just to ensure your body is up to the task," the doctor informed flatly, and flipped the manila folder closed.

Quatre knew he wouldn't. Trowa just wasn't that way. He was one of the most self-sacrificing individuals the blonde had ever known; no professional advice would keep him from accepting missions, and working toward the goal all the Gundam pilots shared. Such facts dismayed the blonde, but there was nothing to be done about it. As his companion had so succinctly put it, they were soldiers first; all else was subordinate to that one role.

"Beyond that, I don't believe you'll have a problem with us discharging you in the morning, will you?" The doctor continued.

Trowa shook his head once more. "Not at all."

"Very well then," the physician extended a warm smile and a large, worn hand out to his patient. "Take care of yourself, Mr. Barton."

As the man exited, the other pilots heaved a collective sigh of relief. They were all more than ready to return to normalcy.

Or, something more like it, at least.

* * *

**ANs: **Just one more chapter and we're all done! :/ Hopefully it'll cap off things the way everyone's hoping. Be sure to look for the quasi-sequel, _Finding Neutral_, which will be posted relatively soon…I hope. ^_^;;


	6. Chapter Five & Epilogue: Love & War

Chapter Five/Epilogue: Love and War

_ One month later… _

The five boys sat around the kitchen table silently enjoying breakfast.

Heero finished his meal first, with Trowa and Wufei not far behind. As they each rose from their respective seats to take their dishes to the sink, Quatre's eyes casually followed Trowa for only a brief moment before returning to his own plate of food.

As soon as the others were out of earshot, Duo's lips pulled into a sly grin. "You two don't have to be hush-hush for my sake," he quipped, pawing at the remains of his eggs absently.

Quatre's head tilted just slightly as his gaze locked with the American's. "What do you mean?"

Duo snorted. "You two don't act like you're even together! I'm just sayin', don't play the part on my account."

The blonde chuckled softly. "We're not."

His companion's mouth gaped. "Whaddaya mean _you're not_?"

Quatre gave his head a small shake. "He promised me that when the war ends, we'll be together. It's just as he said—we're soldiers first."

"But you love each other!" The American contested.

"Mm," the blonde pilot nodded. "And that isn't about to change. There's no need to rush things."

"There's no guarantee any one of us will make it outta this mess in one piece!"

The Arabian simply smiled. "I know there aren't. But we try as much as we can to protect each other. I know you understand…it's just like you and Heero."

Duo visibly jerked, as if he'd been pinched. "Me and Heero?" He forced a laugh that came out obviously nervous. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

The blonde chuckled. "Don't be coy, Duo. He may not see it, but I do."

His companion quirked an eyebrow disbelievingly, "Oh yeah, see what?"

Quatre's eyes once more turned to his plate of cooling food as he pawed at it in the same manner Duo had. "I don't know…maybe the way your eyes light up when he walks in the room, the way you never lose contact with him for more than a mission, or perhaps the way you always try to get his attention..?"

Again, the American's jaw dropped.

"I've known since you first talked about him, when he self-detonated."

Being read like a book made Duo feel unusually uneasy. It wasn't often that someone was able to discern him so clearly and so precisely, but if anyone could do it, it was Quatre.

"Learn from my mistake, Duo: Don't wait. Tell him. Even if he doesn't feel similarly, it's better to have told him than to have those things remain unspoken."

With that, the Arabian rose from his seat with his plate in hand, pausing to lock gazes with his companion once more for only a brief moment. "…And don't worry, I won't tell him you actually _lost_ the bet."

Speechless and dumbfounded, the braided boy looked like a picture frozen in time. That intuitive, perceptive little blonde…he'd known not only of Duo's feelings, but of his friendly wager with Heero as well. It wasn't the least likely thing to have happen, but it definitely wasn't expected.

…

Quatre made his way over to the sink, setting his plate and silverware aside while he carefully rolled up the long sleeves of his shirt. Though the others merely dropped their dishes off and went off about their business, their blonde-haired comrade always made sure to clean up after all of them. It didn't bother him at all to do so; in fact, he found it rather enjoyable at times, since the task was so menial it allowed time for him to reflect. Twisting on the warm water, he readied a sponge, and quietly went to work. As his hands went through the motions, his mind journeyed elsewhere, as it typically did, going back to that moment in the hospital.

Despite Trowa's sudden illness being a relatively harrowing experience, Quatre had gained much from it. It forced him to confront his own feelings; something he'd previously been reluctant to do, for various reasons. In doing so, he'd discovered they were indeed returned to him by the one he loved. That moment in the hospital—the moment which Trowa made it completely clear how truly he reciprocated his companion's sentiments—had since become one of the memories the blonde treasured most. Every second of it remained engraved within his heart and mind; not a single detail had faded. He hadn't forgotten the warmth of his love's embrace, the kindness in his emerald eyes, the softness of his voice, the sound of his heartbeat, and the words that were said.

They had made a promise that day. There, in the peaceful embrace of one another's arms, they vowed that after the combat, struggle, heartache and bloodshed, they would have a better life…one with each other. It gave them reason. It gave them direction. Most importantly, it gave them a light at the end of a long and sorrowful tunnel; one they'd never considered before. The prospect of spending life after the war with someone so dear to him made Quatre look forward to the future, something he genuinely couldn't say he'd done previously.

The sensation of a familiar soothing warmth welled in his chest. He didn't have to search for the cause of it; he already knew exactly what it was. Only Trowa's presence had such an effect on him. In all his life, he'd never experienced a soul quite like that of the stoic, green-eyed pilot. The whole of Quatre's body seemed to resonate whenever Trowa was near. It was as though his soul came alight when the other was around.

Aquamarine eyes shifted over to the left to see Trowa with a small kitchen towel slung over his shoulder, pulling the freshly-washed items from the draining rack and drying them.

Continuing his actions all the while, the blonde couldn't help but beam brightly at his love. As the taller pilot silently finished drying another dish and placed it in the cupboard, their gazes met for just a moment.

There were no words between them; none were necessary. Trowa's eyes spoke all volumes beyond all that his voice was capable of; they told all that the blonde sought to know. Within their endless emerald depths was a small flicker; tugging at the corner of his lips, the faintest inkling of a smile. Both of those things Quatre knew were reserved only for him, and no one else.

Unknown to either the blonde or his companion, Duo stood in the doorway with used plate and silverware in hand, his amethyst eyes looking on silently. Letting a warm smile overtake his countenance, he placed the dirtied items back on the table and slunk out of the area to find somewhere else to be. There were few things important enough to warrant interrupting them, and dishes were certainly not one of them.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, the braided boy casually strolled out of the back door and into the new day's warm sunshine. As his violet eyes aimlessly scanned the skies above, he allowed himself a small chuckle. It certainly appeared as though everything happened for a reason. Even out of the destruction and misery of war, something beautiful had grown; and with it, the promise of years to come, and a thousand more moments just like that which they'd shared in the hospital.

Because although they were soldiers first, they had found that together, they would be something so much more…

* * *

**~OWARI~**

**Final author's notes:**

So, that about wraps it up! Thanks so much to everyone who made this fic possible, (this couldn't have happened without your help! I love you all!), and a big, heartfelt thank you as well to everyone who favorited, reviewed, alerted, and otherwise supported me in this venture! ^_^ I sincerely hope that everyone enjoyed it!

For those who are interested, I wrote a quasi-spinoff of this fic some time ago called _Finding Neutral_. It's got a little ways left to go before it's ready for posting, but it's a 1x2 that sort of ties up the loose ends on Duo and Heero's part of the story. It won't have much plot, (not like this fic did, either… . *cough*), but hopefully it'll be a good read. Keep an eye out for it!

And thanks again, everybody! :D


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